Red Carpet Day
by A Libertine So Grim
Summary: The stage is set, the candles lit as a red shining star is born. Desired  by one, hunted by another, whose will her curtain call be?


**Disclaimer: **I do not own Kuroshitsuji or its characters, and I do not make any money with my writing.

**Pairing(s): **We have Druitt, Grell, William, Sebastian and... See for yourself!

**A/N: **Ophelia's lines are from Hamlet by William Shakespeare. Duh.

* * *

**Act I**

I cannot fathom how cruel mistress fate has led me to witness this insipid show! Must I stand this somnolent display, enacted by sad Philistines to mere children whose purity will suffer from this horror? For I, Aleister Chamber, am a patron of _arts_, and this to me shoves dirt in the Muses' sweet faces! Yet there is no escape; by my duty and honour, I must withstand this atrocity and put on a charade of my own for these poor children's sake. How I do feel for the Earl of Phantomhive, who so kind-heartedly devoted himself to a Hamlet of his own to raise funds for orphans – yet even his shining star is not enough to light up this sky of amateurs.

As I torture my refined senses by pretending to enjoy the show, my thoughts wander to the wild flowery fields, to the dreamscape of love and passion – oh, how I long for my long lost robin, whom I so naïvely let free from her gilded cage! She was a treasure I should have kept for my own; alas, I renounced her to my grief, and the rest is history. When the heart does not guide the hand, Lady Fortuna laughs at my face - such humiliation, crowning me Martyr of Love!

Oh! What is this magical apparition in my opera glass just now, snapping the threads of my reverie? Red as the Queen of Hearts… why, it is sweet Ophelia that swans across the stage, in the wake of his dear brother! What is this aura of hers that instantly grasps me by the heartstrings, pulling me closer and closer until I nearly fly like a nightingale to the fair maiden's bosom from my sky?

With each graceful step, she steals a beat of my heart and a sigh from my lips; so beautiful she is, an angel with a voice from the dawned side of Heaven! Her lark is not that of a common bird, no; she sings in a timbre befitting a nymph or siren – oh, is it what the cultured call death instinct, a sombre note tinting the seraphic harmony? She is calling to me, indeed she is, for how could another man ever grant her the happiness and luxury she deserves?

Brava, brava! I cannot applaud my angel enough; if only my hands would set ablaze in a display of my heartfelt reverence and adoration! So she curtsies, blowing strawberry kisses to the silent and mesmerized audience within her magic circle made of ruby red silk! Oh, my Rapunzel, throw your gilded ropes to me and pull me into your embrace; let me privy to the desires young Ophelia fosters in her heart of hearts towards the undeserving Prince!

Her name, I must hear it tingle in my ears, see it written on my handkerchief and dipped in her intoxicating perfume! I will rip down every poster of this starlet, plaster my walls with her graceful form and orphic smile until she is mine to hold! My heart yearns to meet her, yet time is her servant and my mortal enemy; the intermezzo has started playing, and I must be quick with my plan. I will be here before my sweet Ophelia returns with triumph still greater than the previous; I will catch every sugared syllable she sings, her every sigh a breeze of spring upon my adoring face. My heart pumping with hope, I rise and slip away in the darkness; I race to find my footman to send him for the reddest roses of all London, only for her-

"Excuse me." Oh, how the cruel winter hoods me upon the sight and hear of this dark ambassador – a figure so austere in his suit that I feel insulted on behalf of my beloved. I offer him a hasty bow as a mask for my contempt and apologize for the sudden collision that hardly is my fault. He is like a wreath… a shadow of death shielded behind an ominously shining eye-glass. I dread to think what this man might be doing here, arriving late in the midst of the play in such attire – appearing behind the corner as if he was the abhorrent Ripper himself!

No, I must not fret; I am to meet my crimson little nymph and no man or might will keep us apart! I bid the silent intruder farewell and lose him from my sight as I fleet downstairs to the foyer. The play has but begun, and I, Viscount of Druitt, shall have my Lady Overkill when the curtains close. Thus it is meant to be, and thus it will be; those cold eyes that I still feel watching me, green as vitriol, are but the thrill of the dragon to be conquered before the princess.

**Act II**

It is twenty-seven minutes to eight o'clock and this pathetic excuse of a play goes on and on. At this rate, I foresee countless young souls to reap; any sensible being would want to end their suffering here and now. It is, however, beyond my jurisdiction to collect souls unripe for reaping; all I can do is watch these poor children squirm and that half-wit by the name of Viscount Druitt sigh and moan from his private box above. I would sympathize were those the sounds of his agony – yet the words I can distinguish threaten to break me out in similar sounds out of sheer shame.

Indeed; as I bother to survey the stage, it is a garish red hurricane that harasses my field of vision. The mere sight of Sutcliff prancing about in female attire is enough for my blood to boil; yet I must watch, I must listen and revel in bad taste until I can grab him by that hair he takes such pride in and drag him back to the heaps of paperwork he so craftily managed to elude. Unlike him, I do not make a scene unless necessary – and shocking an entire hall full of orphans hardly qualifies for a necessity.

It is not entirely a sudden chill creeping up behind me; I know to whom it belongs. "From the looks of it, you have not come here for the fabulous show, Mr. Spears," the familiar voice whispers insidiously, a scent of sin and decay invading my personal sphere – a scent of cold hatred flaring up my own. Sebastian Michaelis, a demon a lesser man would claim his arch enemy; yet I am William T. Spears, head of the London Division of Dispatch, and I do not claim this man respectable enough to be my enemy. I offer no greeting, merely adjust my glasses and focus all of my unwilling attention on the object of demonic mockery. It is only a matter of time until Sutcliff wakes from his on-stage stupor and notices the two of us – a scene I will cut short before he raises sweet hell.

"Yet you have not made a move. Why is that?" It is not until his words that I can feel the handle of my scythe materializing in my hand, barring the demon in Renaissance attire from me. What gives these demons a great deal of their repugnance is how idle they are, seducing and corrupting without end – traits I am immune to, but traits dangerously infectious to that cross-dressing cretin. I have seen his bony knees quiver at the mere call of Michaelis' name, while no threat of mine affects him the same way – sending him head over heels for what I need him for.

"I most certainly did not come to converse with a demon. Do be gone now."

"Then why not take my word as that of a man – one who exists to know the soul. You cannot keep your eyes off Mr. Sutcliff, can you?" He smiles, while I am not impressed by the obvious. I am that man's guardian, his parole officer and superior all in one; he is a supernatural disaster for me to harness. It is the demon Sutcliff followed here, not his artistic aspirations, and I am once again held responsible. He knows it and needs no explanation other than my sneer and cold shoulder his hand now brushes.

"You follow his every move, gallop to the rescue of a grown man. Empowering, isn't it – to see the look in his eyes, to know he will not move should you walk over him. You _desire_ him, Mr. Spears, yet you enjoy his game too much to admit it."

Desire – such a useless, organic word meant for starving poets and other lunatics. I do not take a concept and bend it to my will; my words are absolute and adamant, for they are _words_no more. My relation to Sutcliff is but professional… unless I am absolutely obliged to exact a personal revenge. Despite all bother, the thought tempts me more and more - any single one of his previous failures would be enough for me to dismiss him and banish him to the depths of Hell. Why I have yet to do this remains a mystery, perhaps a cautious hope for future amends or convenience – if only a last resort to keep him from this silver-tongued monster.

"To think he would set his eyes on a demon like yourself, Mr. Michaelis. What he calls love is nothing but an abomination," I declare, the taste of venom on my tongue. Blood and bruises in the name of _love_, wasted on a heartless beast – does the same glow persist in Sutcliff's eyes when I punish him for his deeds and mend his doubled wounds afterwards? How far will he let me go until he bends under my heel, bleeds from so many papercuts that he can bleed no more and finishes his work in immaculate files and archives?

I can feel the cold steel of my scythe pressing into Michaelis' skin, much like how my hand yearns to strangle the one who still crows and prances in his own velvet curtain universe, oblivious to the entirely other scene playing where I stand. "You know, Mr. Spears, how nature deals with abomination. It is crushed so that the strong may survive. Isn't that so?" Thus whispers the demon; his gloved hand a spider, crushing a bud of black rose inside it so that petals fall over my shoe – tricks I see without a single glance. Instead, I am seeing red quite concretely; I can see the glue of his eyelashes failing, yet he fails to notice me in his hideously off-key shrieking that a deaf man might mistake for singing.

"_To-morrow is Saint Valentine's day,  
All in the morning betime,  
And I a maid at your window,  
To be your Valentine.  
Then up he rose, and donn'd his clothes,  
And dupp'd the chamber-door;  
Let in the maid, that out a maid  
Never departed more."_

The role of Ophelia hardly is one to convince me of Sutcliff's talent; her lascivious insanity comes so naturally to him that I cough with significance, reaching for a handkerchief or cigarette to conceal it. I keep my eyes nailed at my subordinate's flailing arms and snaking braids, and I still know the demon is smiling next to me; disgustingly enough, he must be sharing my thoughts. He conjures up a box of matches and lights the cigarette that is already halfway in my mouth; a gesture just as civilized as a truce for tea time. A demon is not a demon without his manners – neither is a Death God, a rule to which the exception now kneels on the stage crying.

"Alas, it will soon be my turn. Please pay my respects to Mr. Sutcliff… and for the convenience of us both, keep him away from me and my Master. Farewell, Mr. Spears." His placid face blurs as I exhale and glance at him over my shoulder; he is gone like a whisper, dissipated behind the curtain where I can still feel traces of his dark presence. I am left with a direct line of sight at the red-haired reaper, worthless thoughts and ideas drifting away with the smoke I empty my lungs in. Sebastian Michaelis… somehow it satisfies me to know that it is but your tricks that you play on him and not your true self, exclusive to that Phantomhive kid's soul.

As Laertes makes his entrance, I turn away, unable to witness the adoring idiocy Ophelia embraces him with. The doorman gladly accepts the coins I bury in his hand as I emerge from the theater into the pouring rain. London hardly is on fire enough for this special night of Sutcliff's; only a few small bonfires and the moths of Scotland Yard have come to pay him their respects. How laughable. I open my umbrella and slip away, to the dark alleyway behind the theater where I finish my smoke and watch the last sparks die at my feet. I grind the remains underfoot along with my reflection in the puddle and light another cigarette, opening the Book in the faint glow.

It is six past eight and Ophelia is dead, probably drowned in the lake of her own thespian tears. It will not be long before I hear the scream of departing souls; the hour where whores moan and madmen creep, and I know he cannot resist the call. That is when I will meet him… and see that passion embodied, the very reason I still keep him around. I will have Grell all for myself - there is no way I will let that idiot be lured and have the red beaten out of him in his pathetic blindness. I need him in one piece, and he is mine to govern.

And he shall have his curtain call.


End file.
